


Assumed Control

by A_Vexing_Hex



Category: BioShock
Genre: Blood Play, Jack is a pretty messed up kid, M/M, Needle play, Needles, blond!Atlas, dubcon, let's all pat his head, noncon, questionable upholstery projects, sometimes Jack won't kindly, sort of, top!Jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 19:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1277689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Vexing_Hex/pseuds/A_Vexing_Hex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack makes an attempt at getting what he wants for once, with varied results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Assumed Control

Jack held him at gunpoint, and still it didn't feel enough. He didn't feel secure or safe, not as long as that honeyed voice continued on. But still, he had him at gunpoint, his square jaw gritting tight, his stance relaxed, which surprised him.

Bright blue eyes stared down the gun's barrel, and Atlas didn't tense either. Well, not in any major fashion. In a minor way, his musculature started to coil and move beneath his demeanor, preparing to spring. Jack had seen it before. He remembered now, as he hadn't before.

Bravery had somehow driven him here, to this derelict room with the cheery paisley wallpaper, the solid oak sideboards. He'd forced him into a chair, at the end of a pistol, and cuffed him to it.

"Ah…you don't wanna do this, boyo. I promise you will regret it." Soft words to sway him from this course of action.

But he was set. There was no getting past what he was about to do, and every bit of bravery the boy had swelled in his chest as he murmured, low and gutteral, the sound of his voice surprising even Atlas, from the look of those raised brows.

"You shut the **_fuck_** up."

Contrary to nature. Fighting the grain. Wasn't that what this was all about? A freak experiment in the deep gone horribly, terribly wrong.

The way his jaw tensed, the way the Irishman frowned--no, _scowled_ , with daggers stabbing straight out of the heart of his eyes…

Perhaps _that_ was why he did it. For the control. For the tensing of muscle, sliding beneath skin, pumping full of heat and adrenaline and the sweet lactic acid that burned and made a man weary.

Jack knew he wouldn't have long. This one had a bizarre amount of charisma, a level of control that was comparable to the finest of snakes in the grass. He had to do this, and he had to do it now.

Evidence to the fact revealed itself in how Atlas's smooth, saccharine lips opened to beg a favor, one that he couldn't possibly refuse. "Would you kindl--"

One cut off by the brunette's hand promptly pistol whipping him across the face.

He was bound to be furious with him later.

Still, the dazed look on handsome, diamond-cut Irish features proved to be worth any sort of punishment, and then Jack was upon him, carrying out the better parts of his plan.

The rag, he'd gotten out of a kitchen cupboard. The thread, thick and wiry, made of metal, spooled in a woman's purse. The needle--one of the wide, tapered, upholstery variety, from a workman's tool set. Perhaps they'd been decorating someone's home, or office, repairing furniture with that sharp bit. It now had a much more nefarious purpose. A function he'd considered subconsciously, but hadn't been able to think on in any concrete fashion until he'd seen that smug face again, smoke trailing from beneath a perfect cupid's bow, from lips that had directed him from his very arrival into the smoldering, watery grave that was Rapture. 

_Those damnable fucking lips._

After a light curse, Atlas prepared to command him again, so Jack repeated the motion, pleased with the swelling, blackening of an eye, a laceration torn into the blond's cheek. The guilt he felt was nearly as stimulation at the gratification of being above him, for once.

He fisted his hand in blond hair, brought the con back up to a sitting position in the chair, and shoved the rag into his gaping mouth. He could have been even more mean. Could have gotten a rag smeared with mechanic's grease, or…shoe polish. Let him taste what that was like on the tongue, for once. But the rag was clean, a sort of half-apology for what was about to happen.

Jack grasped the needle in a hand that trembled with…excitement? Yes. A quick assessment of his body confirmed it. He was excited--thrilled by every aspect. How depraved.

If given the opportunity, Atlas would spit that piece of fabric out, and then become his One True God again, directing his every action. He had to rebel against his idol, his deity. He had to stitch his own scripture into his lips.

So he began from the left, and moved to the right.

In through the top, out through the bottom. Never in completely straight lines. Each time he punctured flesh, a protest that choked on the rag coming in an angry Irish tenor. Jack set about the dirty task of sewing Atlas's mouth shut.

There was something utterly sensual about it. Mouths were made for talking and kissing, for molding around other parts of the anatomy, to dribble with spittle when necessary. The thought that he'd torn through the muscle of those lips, and made the perfect imperfect, made Jack sit and stare at Atlas a moment in awe, straddling him as he admired his handiwork. His fingers traced over each small wound, pressed down on them. Jack shivered each time the man beneath him vocalized, grunted in pain, jerked his head away. A choked moan came out of the brunette's own throat, and he leaned in to kiss that ruined mouth, to tug at the stitches with his teeth, to try and drag out some of the flesh from between the laces. 

His tongue twisted around the cord, and was surprised to find Atlas's own muscle meeting him, partially, sharing the blood that had been shed by this impromptu operation, metal and salt blending between them--

But it was all a lure, as Atlas suddenly jerked forward. 

The headbutt missed, as Jack jerked backward off of his lap, and noted his face, the way it burned with a fury he'd never seen before. For some reason, it brought a giddy expression to his features, and a heat that swelled deep in his gut.

Jack's hand wandered, to his own thighs, and then to Atlas's. The man jerked against his bonds as he unfastened his slacks, gave a slight, muffled scream as he pulled hard against the wire in his mouth to try and open it. His jaw moved, his skin stretched, but all he succeeded in doing was allowing himself to bleed more, as his wounds tore a bit. Control was no longer in his court, and he wasn't pleased at all.

But Jack…Jack burned with intensity, his breath a deep pattern of slow, intense inhales and exhales, almost louder than any protest as he slipped the sizable length of the Irishman's cock from his slacks, began to pet him, stroke him. This was power. This was greatness. This was the addiction. He was…starting to understand.

Whether it wanted to or not, Atlas's body responded, and he landed on his knees to swallow him hole. Jack **_wanted_** to choke on that sex and feel the tip brush the back of his throat. Shedding tears as he was made to gag seemed like a perfectly viable thought, when it was on his terms. So, it was with a particular rage of his own that the boy worked on him, sucked on that intimidating, thick length, until even through the pain Atlas couldn't help but stay hard. 

The brunette sat back on his heels, again admiring his work. Before him, Atlas. Flustered and aroused, and entirely compromised. And without a word in his mouth to spit out the contrary.

It didn't take long for Jack to slip out of his trousers, or to prep himself. He wasn't shocked at all, at how electrified his own body was, at how painfully stiff his cock stood. He had enough slick stored in a vial to thoroughly coat the Irishman, and so he did, before straddling him again, before using one hand to pull tight in honeyed strands of hair as the other guided his throbbing sex into the heat between his legs.

"Look at me."

Jack's demand was almost feathery, as he was breached by the elder man. A grunt came thick from Atlas's chest, but his gaze remained averted.

The boy's finger twisted in past the wires that bound his mouth. He grasped them. He _pulled_. "Look at me." Still nothing, though a bright twinge of pain showed in the Irishman's expression.

He rolled his hips. Rode him. Slow, but deep, the rhythm somewhat irregular, the pace hard to keep because of his jittering, adrenaline-drugged excitement.

His finger pulled harder, and he sent a quick, firm jolt of Electro Bolt into the metal strands. " _Look at me_."

The blond didn't, but he _did_ scream, arched his back and hips as his toes curled in scuffed boots.

And Jack was completely lost.

He became an animal, bucking, writhing in his lap, slamming his hips down to Atlas to take him to the root, and then rising back up again. His only anchors were his two hands, grasping hard at the braces that went over Atlas's shoulders to where his hands were bound tight behind the chair, and his mouth, biting at the laces he'd drawn tight, his most morbid act of disobedience. His sex was trapped between them, the friction there insane as he drove himself onward, to the edge of what could be the first climax, the only climax he'd have while in total control…

The coil built. It turned, and twisted. His cock dribbled with a bit of pre-spending, and Jack rode the edge, clung to it viciously as he grasped at one of the stitches with his teeth, and _pulled_ succeeding in ripping it clean out of Atlas's lip, and making him jerk his head sideways with another scream.

Almost…

He brought himself all the way back up, then let the blond's shaft impale him again, in a full stroke. The Irishman gave a gutteral noise, and then jerked his hips upward, and Jack noted that he was being filled, being bred, cum slicking his thighs as he squeezed tight on that cock...

 _Almost_ …

The realization dawned on him, hit him like a wave, and he clawed tighter in Atlas's shirt.

He would be stuck at almost.

Jack pulled back, and at long last, Atlas met his gaze.

And smirked.

He couldn't come. Wouldn't come, unless he was commanded. Allowed.

But still, he worked, and tried, and squirmed in that lap. Still, he rocked with him, to the point of frustration, and tears, his body completely over-stimulated and overworked. He yelled his frustration, face buried in the side of the Irishman's neck, as his legs began to give out.

The fever was going to burn him from the inside, and devour him, before he could ever extinguish it.

Panicking, Jack brought his hand up, scrabbled at the bow of the blond's lips. "Atlas…" He murmured it, voice much more dense than he'd wanted. "Atlas, please…" He jerked his hips forward, weakly.

His light, pained smirk never left. He wouldn't look away now. No, not now that Jack wanted his eyes averted. The brunette grasped the stitches again, pulled at them roughly, popping another one out and causing a cry of pain. Filthy fingers dug past the remaining cords, grasped the rag he'd shoved in there, now bloody and soaked through with spit, and pulled it out. " ** _Atlas_** …"

Dispassionately, his mouth still halfway-stitched, the blond spat in the boy's face, and whispered, voice harsh, speech garbled from a dry tongue and his impeded lips. "Come then, you _fucking brat_."

And he did, ashamed, soiling his clothing as well as the dress shirt the other man wore, riding it out. His body heaved against Atlas, his symbiosis with the bastard complete once more. How he needed him, needed his voice spilling over with charm and grace and unfulfilled promises in his ear. He needed him filling his body, filling his mouth, filling his head with the kind of security only a madman could promise.

He cried out again, the noise wretched and nearly sobbing. But this was too fucking good. Stars went off behind his eyes as his physiology was compelled to obey.

He'd assumed control. But the control had been assumed in and of itself. Jack finished as he rode the other man weakly, then stumbled backward off of his lap, blood dripping down his face from where it had been spat upon. He fumed, in the manner of a child, refused his rightful place at the top of the world. And then he dressed.

Silence dwelled between them for several moments, before he rounded the chair. At no moment did he free Atlas, but he did press the key for the cuffs into his hand, and the blond immediately set to work letting himself out of his present predicament.

"You'll regret this." 

The sentiment from earlier was echoed, and Jack paused, turned his head. His hands shook again with a different sort of adrenaline, and in kind, he admitted. 

"I know."


End file.
